


his head so proud

by Biggus Slickus (crownlessliestheking)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Getting Together, Intermission style, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:08:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29935971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownlessliestheking/pseuds/Biggus%20Slickus
Summary: You tell him that’s a bold statement. Does he not strike you as a bold man, he wants to know. You consider this before you answer, and you look at him as you consider. You ain’t sure that it helps, but you’re doing it.Bold’s not the word you’d choose, you say, finally. He asks what word you’d choose, and if you didn’t know better, you’d call it almost playful. Flirtatious. You’re not sure you do know better, mind. You tell him strong’s one that comes to mind. Anchor might be another, with what he was saying about community. You don’t ask him what he’d use to describe you; you ain’t that narcissistic. And you’re not sure you want to know, either.
Relationships: Dad Crocker/Diamonds Droog
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	his head so proud

**Author's Note:**

> Finally, I got this one done. 
> 
> Title, uh. Title from the Lament for Boromir. This is not foreshadowing, I was just in my feels about Boromir when I came up with it. More so than usual, anyway.

Midnight City. A shimmering jewel of a cesspit with a nasty underbelly that ain’t all that under, when you get down to it. You don’t have any kinda issue with that, being one of the top dogs of that underbelly. Second-in-command, even, but you’d rather be third if it meant you got away from the paperwork. Second carries a whole lotta responsibility, and you got enough on your plate when it comes to dealing with the first.

But everything in your city- and yeah, it’s yours, when it comes to the day to day shit- has its own place, just how you like it. You got a real intimate acquaintance with most half the business owners, and a bitter understanding with the rest. You know where you’re welcome and where you ain’t, and god help anyone who even thinks of cooking the books to cheat the Crew outta their fair share. You know everyone who frequents each type of joint because it’s your job, and you’re pretty fuckin’ good at it, if you do say so yourself. The operation’s running smooth, no hitches, and that’s all the goddamn praise you need.

There’s only one place that refuses all your stubborn attempts to categorize it. Least it did when it opened and you paid the proprietor a visit, real friendly like, and found yourself leaving with more pastry than even the Crew could eat, a coffee, and not a single damn answer to any of your questions. You didn’t take it personal, even if he wears a hat better than most men you know and smells pleasantly of tobacco. You figured he’d be asking to come under your wing soon enough.

That lasted all of twenty-four hours, since the next time you were walking down the street you saw him punch a green-suited fucker through a display case and send their gun flying. You’ll admit to a certain amount of satisfaction at seeing that bastard Cans crash through a window and onto the street. Only reason you didn’t take a picture to commemorate is because you’re above that shit.

It hadn't answered your question about if he needed to go into business with you, but at least it told you he wasn’t on _their_ side, so you figured it was fine to drop in every now and again. You get greeted by a smile every time. You don’t smile back. You know what your smile looks like and it’s reserved for assholes who get on your bad side, and Slick. The two ain’t mutually exclusive.

That’s the thing about the fella running the bakery down the corner and the bakery as a whole. You don’t know what to make of it or its regulars. It’s a classy joint, as far as somewhere that sells home-baked shit and artisan coffee is, but the prices are pretty damn decent and you ain’t the kinda man to spend more than you gotta on fuel to keep your carcass moving.

The coffee’s strong and cheap and the croissants are damn good, and that’s why you keep going back. That’s your story and you’re sticking to it. It’s got sweet nothing to do with the the fella himself. You barely talk to him. You could pick him out of a line-up easy, sure, but you can do that to most people. You’ve got a head for names and faces. Especially ones who wears a suit like he does.

He’s always sharp-dressed, for a man who’s half-covered in flour and sugar and whatever it is goes into pastry. Butter, probably. Crisp white shirt behind his apron, the beginnings of a tie in a real neat knot nestled at his throat, a hat on his head at an angle that’s just jaunty enough for you to respect it. You’re a man with an appreciation for a good hat. So’re the idiots you work with. You’ve all nodded to yourselves in appreciation after leaving the place loaded with goods.

Just because you’re the one who found out about it first didn’t mean you could keep it a secret from the Crew. ‘Course, Deuce makes it real hard to keep anything from him sometimes; he’d tailed you almost the whole way here one day before you’d noticed, and if it were anyone else, you’d have cracked ‘em across the head with your cuestick, but it’s Clubs. He’s snuck up on folks more paranoid than you by far. Boxcars, as far as you know, found out about it himself. Valentine’s Day window display; he’d said they had the best in town.

Fuck knows when the _boss_ did, but he went with you one day, eyed up Mr. Crocker in a way that made you unsure who you should be worried about, and then left with a sneer. You ain’t one for divided loyalties, of course; just that if Mr. Crocker could do that to Cans, the boss’s scrawny ass mightn’t stand much of a chance before he gets a knife in there. You’d rather he not get a knife in there, though. That’s not all of why you usually come here alone, but if you’re gonna be real honest with yourself, it might be part of it.

You always go at the same time. In the height of summer it’s when the sky’s just starting to turn purple as the sun fucks off. In the winter, it’s already dark, and the chill’s biting into your hands, so you’re always happy to make your way back to the hideout with a cuppa joe cradled between them. You don’t do gloves. You need dexterity. More to the point, you don’t need fabric catching fire when you’re tryna have yourself a smoke.

There’s always a rotating crowd of the same kind there. You’ve marked out four, five regulars, some of whom never fuckin’ seem to leave, but the proprietor’s nice enough to keep the place open late for them, and that benefits you just fine, so you ain’t gonna complain. You like it here just fine, so you can’t fault ‘em, though, not with how this place has established itself firmly in neutral-fuckin’-ground, God help the sorry bastard who tries to change that. Ain’t gonna be you, is all you got to say about that.

Still. They’re plenty weird too. Some redhead constantly typing away at a monster of a computer that you could use to brain someone in a pinch. You barely ever see ‘em leave, you figure they’d live there if that’s what it came down to. Hell, maybe they do. You don’t know shit, other than they ain’t related to any feuds you got going on or brewing. Then there’s the picture person, with that camera you’re always a half-second away from grinding into dust under your heel except that’d be rude as hell and you’re pretty damn sure Mr. Crocker would have _your_ ass out on the street for doing that. Doesn’t stop you from gettin’ antsy when that bug-eye of a lens is pointed your way. You’ve got a mental note to talk to the little bastard someday, make sure they ain’t taking a special interest in anything other than some real photogenic cupcakes and latte art and looking like goddamn idiot. Then there’s probably the one fucker around here you might fear, ‘cause you saw fourteen goddamn sugars in a four-shots-of-espresso-Mr. Crocker-please coffee go through black lips without so much as a flinch. You’d worry about what that one could do if they weren’t gonna drop dead from caffeine in this bakery one day, or stress somewhere else on another, looking like you fuckin’ feel dealing with the Crew some days. Then there’s the one in the cardigan floating around ‘em like a cape. Some’re thick when it’s cold, some thin when it’s warm. Always tired, always looking five paces away from killing someone who gets between ‘em and their tea and ginger cake fix at an unreasonable fuckin’ hour, in a way absent enough that you ain’t sure if you should be more worried or not worried at all. You know who all these people are, and more to the point, you know where they live if they ever become a problem for Mr. Crocker over there behind the counter. Not that you expect any of these mooks are gonna be real trouble, but you’re keeping an eye on ‘em anyway, especially the ones that meet your gaze when they catch you staring. Ain’t many people who can do that without pissing themselves, and that’s when you ain’t even trying to be menacing.

Still. You figure Mr. Crocker wouldn’t like it if you went around terrorizing his clientele inside the place, but he’s the kind of man who wouldn’t like it if you did that outside the place either. Your hands are tied until one of ‘em really _does_ look at you the wrong way. You’re betting on cardigan or the insomniac. They do an awful lotta staring sometimes, especially when you’re over by the counter.

It’s all of ‘em in today, and two outta four turn when the bell jangles to announce your presence. You don’t appreciate it. Shit’s too cheery for your liking, and you ain’t ever needed something to tell anyone where you were. Either you want ‘em to know and they know, or you don’t want ‘em to and they don’t. Simple.

But you don’t have it in yourself to think too hard on that bullshit when Mr. Crocker’s coming over to the register and greeting you with a smile and asking what is it you’d like today, Mr. Droog?

You ain’t ever been Mr. Droog a day in your life, but you figure you don’t mind it the way he says it, soft and polite. Almost makes you seem like you _are_ a Mr. Droog. Classy, respectable, not dangerous at all. Could be Mr. Droog has an office job. Could be Mr. Droog’s got a booming social life and a standing date on Friday nights with a gent who oughta be peeled out of his shirt afterwards.

Ha. You’ll stick to classy, respectable, and fuckin’ dangerous as all hell, thanks.

You say you’ll just take a coffee today. He asks if that’s all.

Unobstrusive, too. You ask him if he’s being nosy but there’s no heat behind it. Customer service is being fuckin’ nosy sometimes. ‘Sides. You’ve left often enough with a buncha shit for the Crew (sometimes with ‘em in tow, and if you were the kinda man to thank stars, you’d be on your goddamn knees to thank ones that the boss was either too busy or preferred to stay outside and stare unpleasantly at folks in the street while sharpening a knife after that first time) that it ain’t an invalid question.

He says no but he did just come up with a fresh batch of those muffins you like.

There’s a muttering behind you. You listen for a second, catch something about muffins, and tune it out. Ain’t to do with you, so you ain’t interested, but if it’s your name in any of their mouths, there’s gonna be a problem.

You say you might be tempted now. You say you can’t hardly turn ‘em down if they’re fresh outta the oven.

He tells you that if you don’t take them, they might end up going to waste. He can’t have that.

You don’t point out that there’s other folks in here who’d eat ‘em.

You agree that you can’t have that. You tell him to add the whole lot to your bill. He says you should have one here. Presumptuous, you tell him. You ask if he’s tryna tell you what to do. He says he’d never, just that it’d be a shame to box them up and not have you eat one fresh. He says he’s changed the recipe some, needs feedback. It’s plausible enough that even if you were gonna protest, you wouldn’t be able to. Not that you’re a fuckin’ expert on muffins in any way.

One in a plate for here, then. You say you’re gonna sit outside, though. Man’s gotta get some fresh air before he crawls down a goddamn hole to sit in a too-small space with three assholes snapping at each other. You don’t say that last part.

He tells you your total, you pass over a crisp bill, and you go through the usual dance of him giving you your change and you putting it right back into the tip jar. ‘S only polite, for a man who wears a hat that good and bakes so well. You lean against the counter to wait as he gets your coffee ready. The muffin comes first, sat on a neat white plate. It’s still warm. Smells good, too. More of a kick to it this time, you can already tell. There’s a little pat of butter on the side, a knife and fork sitting on the plate too. For now, you break off a piece of the top with your fingers, and you’re real careful so you don’t get any crumbs on your suit. They ain’t as bad as icing sugar, but it’s a damn close thing some days.

It’s good, you tell him, over the noise of the coffee-maker. You have yourself another piece of the edge, easy enough to get at. You’re gonna have to double back home to drop these off. Ain’t no way you’re sharing.

He says that he’s pleased to hear it, in that soft voice of his. Might be that you’re tempted to linger inside, just because you like listening to it. But outside the air’s just crisping up with fall, and you’re of a mind to enjoy it while it lasts. Midnight City gets bitter cold and grey, come winter; even if it’s your favorite season, you have a craving to be out of doors every now and then.

Mr. Crocker sets down your coffee right in front of you, white cup in a white saucer. Four sugars and a splash of milk. You ain’t about to choke down tarry black coffee like the boss; you have actual taste buds. You thank him, pick it up to head outside. You say you’ll be back in for the muffins and to return this. You don’t need to say it, but you do anyway. And just like always, he nods, and offers you a close-mouthed smile.

It’s nice. Genuine. Not the kind of expression you’re used to seeing, if you’re being honest, but one you wouldn’t mind seeing more of.

Mr. Droog, he says. You look at him, raise an eyebrow. He asks if you wouldn’t mind his company. He’d like a smoke, he says. It ain’t a thing you’d ever mind, but you don’t say that. Instead, you just nod.

You figured he’d smoked; tobacco’s an easy thing to pick out, even under the warm smells of the bakery. You turn to go outside, you know he’ll meet you there, so you ignore the jaunty noise of the bell again and settle yourself down on one of the neat little tables a man like you’s got no business settling himself down on, and you sip at your coffee.

Mr. Crocker makes real good coffee. It ain’t the only thing he’s good at.

The chair opposite yours screeches some against the pavement as he drags it out. He’s got a pipe in his hand, real old-fashioned. You smoke roll-ups, you’ve got some in your case, and you figure you might as well join him. You ain’t the type of man to turn down a companionable smoke, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t interested in it with him, specifically.

You help yourself to another bite of muffin and the view of him packing the pipe. He’s real careful about it. You appreciate that. Enough that you get your matches out for when he’s done.

Let me, you say, as he pats at his pocket. There’s real surprise on his face for a second, before he smiles at you again. Might be that makes your chest tighten up some. The match rasps against the book as you strike it, and you cup one hand around it nice and proper as he leans in. You ain’t familiar with pipes, but it turns out you don’t need to be.

One of his hand’s on yours, guiding you until it’s lit, and he takes a deep, appreciative inhale. The heat of the match is kissing your fingertips by the time it’s done, and you shake it out real quick. He’s leaning back by then, but he still thanks you, favors you with another smile.

If you were the boss, you’d ask him what the fuck was so funny that he’s smiling so much, huh. It’s a good thing you ain’t; you just nod politely and tell him it’s no trouble. Not when he’s been keeping you in coffee and baked goods aplenty.

It’s part of the business model, he says. Exhales a slow stream of smoke, good and steady. His chest’s real broad, but there’s softness there, more than you’ve got. His arms look it too, but you know that ain’t anything but a lie.

You take the chance to light up a smoke of your own, and you say that business is business, but you’ve got something of an eye for quality. Your gaze lingers on him as you say that. Maybe more than is strictly polite, but he doesn’t complain. You tell him that he’s got the best coffee around, best pastries too, and ain’t no one is going to bother you while you’re here. A man needs some peace and quiet sometimes, you see.

He hums, quiet, sucks in a good amount of smoke off his pipe. His shirt strains some as he breathes in. You’re still looking; you ain’t gonna pretend otherwise.

When he talks next, smoke exhaled, he gestures with his pipe. That’s the point, he says. Community is important, Mr. Droog. You know that. You tell him that, and he nods. He says that he always wanted to open a bakery. He says that he hadn’t until now- there’s a daughter, a family business. He’s vague enough about it that you don’t press, just make a note for later. You know about family business, but not like that. Your boys are the closest thing you’ve got to family, the sorry bastards, and you sure do business together.

He tells you that he wants people to feel welcome and safe, and that a hot drink and good food can go a long way. You tell him he’s empty nesting, and that gets a chuckle, deep and rich.

Maybe, he says. He doesn’t think it’s a bad thing.

You tell him he shouldn’t be so nice to folks he doesn’t know. He gently reminds you that he’s kind, and so he only needs to be nice to people who deserve it. You ain’t one for semantics, you say. They’re the same thing.

No, Mr. Droog, he says. They’re not. His grandmother was not a kind woman, he tells you. Or a nice one. His father was nice, but perhaps not kind. Very funny though, he adds. But all of this to say, that he can be kind to those who need it, and he says that after eighteen years of being a father, he’s good at telling who needs it, that is for sure. But this doesn’t mean he has to be nice to everyone. Like that fellow who rudely barged in, when he first opened up.

You have to admit that throwing someone through a window ain’t a very nice thing to do. But you also have to admit that you’re pretty damn sure _you’ve_ rudely barged in a time or two. And if you haven’t, the boss sure as hell has. You venture this train of thought, and he laughs again, real warm, but not like he’s mocking you. You’re a suspicious bastard, but not even you think he would.

He says that he knows you well enough to forgive a few transgressions. He says that he trusts you’re a good judge of character. He says that your boss tips well, and you don’t have a single damn thing to say to it.

He’s quiet for a moment, and you take a drag off your smoke, breathe it out.

He says that even if he did not, personally, like your boss, he wouldn’t throw him through a window. You tell him that’s just the smart thing to do. Cans’ll forget in ten minutes that it happened, but Slick’s got the memory of a goddamn elephant when it comes to grudges. And he always pays what he owes, plus interest.

Mr. Crocker says that is good to know, but it isn’t the reason. So smooth you don’t even feel offended. He says that your boss is important to you, and that is reason enough to be polite. Even if he weren’t in a customer service job.

You bristle, but it’s reflexive. Slick’s important to you, you don’t know how to not let him me. But he’s all sharp edges, and you know better to try to hold on to any of that. You don’t say this, just that the boss is the boss, and work is work. You add that you’d like to stop talking about it. You don’t say please.

He gets the hint.

So, you say. You’d deal with Slick’s bad manners for me. It’s a question, but you don’t pose it like one.

Yes, Mr. Droog, he says. Amused. He’d just said that, after all.

You tell him you know, you’re just making sure you heard right. You tell him that’s a bold statement. Does he not strike you as a bold man, he wants to know. You consider this before you answer, and you look at him as you consider. You ain’t sure that it _helps_ , but you’re doing it.

Bold’s not the word you’d choose, you say, finally. He asks what word you’d choose, and if you didn’t know better, you’d call it almost playful. Flirtatious. You’re not sure you _do_ know better, mind. You tell him strong’s one that comes to mind. Anchor might be another, with what he was saying about community. You don’t ask him what he’d use to describe you; you ain’t that narcissistic. And you’re not sure you want to know, either.

He thanks you for the compliment, warm. He says that he doesn’t have as apt a description for you. You don’t mind that, you tell him so. You ain’t exactly easy to puzzle out; you’ve made a habit of not wearing what you think on you face. Real important, when the boss is getting on your nerves.

He’s quiet again. Thinking, hard. You wonder what about, but you don’t ask either; you figure he’ll tell you. The muffin’s nearly done, and you take a slow sip of coffee. Your cigarette’s trailing smoke into the air between you, half-finished.

He tells you that he would like to have one, though he thinks that he won’t get anywhere if you two only talk when he’s working. That takes you by surprise. Ain’t many things that do, these days, but it looks like Mr. Crocker’s plenty of them. He suggests that if you’re free this Friday, a dinner should help him come up with an answer. His treat, he insists. He’ll cook, if you don’t want to go out.

You take back what you said, about not calling him bold. This is real fuckin’ bold. You don’t mind it. In fact, you think it’s a good look on him. You don’t say this. Instead, you say he doesn’t need to cook. You make a point that he bakes all day. He tells you he doesn’t mind, and he’d be cooking for himself, anyway.

You get the feeling this is more for your benefit than anything else; he doesn’t strike you as the type of man who gives a damn who sees him going on a date with you. Ain’t like people don’t already know you’re a regular here. You look at him for a second and say yes, you’re free Friday.

You don’t actually know if you’re free Friday, but you’ll make it happen. That’s part of what you do. You ask him if he’s free and gesture at the bakery behind you. He’s open late.

He tells you not to worry about that. His regular late customers won’t mind, he says. He’s looking at you as he says it, and your face heats, against your will. He says that he’s been considering closing earlier, anyway. He’s not as young as he used to be.

Neither are you, you admit. But you’ve been damn near nocturnal for most of your life, now. You’re used to it. You also know that he keeps long hours, and that this place needs a real early start- you’ve seen him coming in as you were going home for the day, both of you opposite ends of tired, but still tipping a hat for one another. He offers you a coffee sometimes, first cup of his day, last of yours. Sometimes, you take him up on it, but you never stay. If you were a decade younger, you would, sleep be damned. You’re not, though.

Friday, then, he says. Nine, if you don’t mind a late dinner.

You don’t. You tell him you’re looking forward to it, as you finish the last of your coffee, and you are. You also tell him that you’ve got time before you’re on the clock now, too. If he wanted to see how the regular customers minded him closing up shop early.

He gives you a look, all knowing, but nods. Yes, he says. That’s an excellent idea. He excuses himself, and if you watch him go, what about it? The counter hides a whole lot, and his slacks fit him good. You wonder who his tailor is; you’ll ask him when he sits back down.

He goes back in, just for a minute. You don’t hear what he says, but all the regulars file out, and about half of them give you a look that’s too fuckin’ knowing for your liking. You let it go, though. Might be you’re in a generous mood today. Might be that you’ve got extra time before work and some privacy, and there’s a coupla things you wouldn’t mind doing with that, if Mr. Crocker’s of a mind to allow it.

You end up a half hour late to the hideout and if your tie’s straight and your hat’s in order, your mouth’s still well-kissed. Not even sharing all the extra muffins is enough to dampen your mood down quiet, nor the suspicious looks you get from the boss’s one working eye. You tell him you’re taking Friday off and ignore his fury in favor of lighting up a smoke. You ain’t the type of guy to take a day off, you’ve never so much as considered it in all the time you’ve been Diamonds Droog- your life’s wrapped itself outside of work hours and that’s been fine before, but you figure if you’re going to give this one a shot, you’re damn well going to do it right.

**Author's Note:**

> Note to self: Be better at double entendre next time.


End file.
